


Care and Devotion

by Bekaylo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Body Image, Erectile Dysfunction, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, HYDRA Husbands, Hand Jobs, Hot Power Top Jack Rollins Even When He Can't Get It Up, M/M, Mentions of Urethral Trauma, Oral Sex, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Rumlow Is Not An Asshole, Rumrollins, Scars, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, mentions of eye trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:46:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4863656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bekaylo/pseuds/Bekaylo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of 'Loyalty', a reunited  Jack Rollins and Brock Rumlow, both battered but breathing, start their new lease of life in seclusion. Away from Hydra, SHIELD and past horrors, there are fresh physical, emotional and sexual challenges to face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care and Devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Loyalty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709477) by [linguamortua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua). 



> There was a comment on the fic 'Loyalty' by linguamortua, mentioning how stoic and matter of fact Jack seemed when recounting his horrendous experiences to a group of rookies.  
> linguamortua replied along the lines of yes, but we don't know how he really feels...
> 
> This is an attempt to explore that, what Jack might have felt about his mutilation, Brock's feelings about Jack's mutilation and how preoccupied Brock might be with his own self-image after having a building dropped on his pretty face.

The first few days were hazy. There was pain and there was what for some reason Jack knew were dressing changes. He was drifting on a cloud of opiates that kept the edges of the pain blurred, he would come to realize later, but at first it was hazy.

There was the sense that he should be feeling ‘like all his birthdays had some at once’. That was the phrase that sprang to mind once when Brock was near, tending to the sources of pain and speaking in a low, gentle tone. There was someone there who was the reason he knew he should feel elated; he seemed to remember some kind of relief and a joyous reunion, but it was lost in a merciful opiate haze for now .

It was like that for a week or so.

Then the pain was sharper and the fog lifted. Brock continued to care for him, solicitous, kind-voiced and giving gentle touches that were not only considerate of his injuries but loving. It was like a dream come true now and he remembered being snatched from the jaws of death in a living hell.

Jack was bothered by a sense of needing to reciprocate, Brock was moving slightly differently than he used to, stiffer, slower. Jack had a protective urge for his carer that made his own compromised state frustrating but Brock would not engage other than to fuss and care and use a gentle tone of voice to say ‘Shhh, gotta take care of you, now, doesn’t matter, I've got you, you’re safe,’.

Jack reached out one day and Brock flinched away from a caress on the cheek. Jack saw his own bandaged hand and the difference in shape, formation and reach from the loss of the fingers and thought it was disgust that made the other man flinch. Brock used to love Jack’s hands, his fingers. Jack pulled his hand back and turned his face away. He did not like Brock seeing the tears but they would not stop for a while.

Silent, stinging tears that at least did not disgust Brock; he kissed them away gently and murmured reassuringly. He did not seem disgusted by Jack’s face - he had been dressing and treating his eye after all.

Brock would not discuss his own sorrows. He never was much good at in depth personal discussion at the best of times and hardly ever when it was important. Neither of them was.

A week later Jack was walking and his first unaided walk was to the bathroom, where he could hear Brock splashing. Jack came in on him clearly fresh from the shower, slightly damp and with a towel wrapped around his waist, checking his hair in the mirror like all of this had been a bad dream.

Jack gave an emotional, inhaled grunt and Brock looked up from the sink, their eyes meeting in the mirror. The desolate horror on Brock’s face baffled and dismayed Jack, did he really find him that disgusting, upright and walking and not just a bedridden lump to fuss over?

Brock looked back down at the sink and stood, hunched and stiff and almost cringing. Jack looked at his damp, towel clad frame and suddenly everything came into focus. Jack let himself notice the patchwork mottling of burn scars and healed grafts. He realized suddenly that everything had changed and some things stayed the same.  
He moved slowly up to Brock and very carefully placed his bandaged, finger stumped hand on the other man’s shoulder. Brock flinched.

“Don’t…” said Brock, quietly and miserably.

“You going to tell me about this?” asked Jack. It was his turn to use a gentle, reassuring and caring tone.

Brock shrugged.

Jack slowly ran the hand over the skin on his shoulders. The bandages reduced sensation to just a very broad sense of being in contact with something, but he was aware that Brock was not altogether smooth. When the bandages came off Jack was going to have to acclimatize himself to a new Brock-landscape.

“Well… no hurry,” said Jack, kindly. He put both hands on Brock and pushed right up against him, a head taller and looking at both of them in the mirror. “Look up,” he said, his left hand snaking around and a bandaged hand pushing insistently under Brock’s chin. “Eyes on me, Brock,”

Brock looked up at once. He looked desperately into Jack’s eyes in the mirror.

“Can you feel things the same?” asked Jack.

“No, not everywhere,” said Brock.

“Does it hurt?”

“Some of it, sometimes. I needed physical therapy, for my hands. There’s…” he sighed a little. “Reduced sensation in my hands, loss of some dexterity,”

Jack moved his bandaged hand further forward in their vision in the mirror. “You don’t say,” He said, sounding thoughtful. Brock frowned and looked at the reflection of Jack’s hand like there was something he thought he ought to realize but hadn't quite got there. Some things never changed, he needed Jack to clarify and state things for him.

“Progress like you seem to have made with these burns, makes me think this’ll fade,” said Jack brushing his chin over Brock’s cheek. Brock did not pull away. “But my fingers won't grow back and my eye…” he turned his face into Brock and kissed him gently on the temple. Brock tilted his head slightly towards that. “You’re worried you’re not pretty enough any more? You vain, self-centred little fucker,” he kissed Brock’s cheek. “You conceited, insensitive asshole.”

Brock swallowed. “You’re gonna say ‘don’t be a dick, I love you just the way you are?” he asked.

Jack gave a wheezy little chuckle. “Are you?”

“Yes,” said Brock. He took Jack’s hand and kissed it and squirmed around to face him. Then he said it. “I love you just the way you are, Jack,”

They talked later about a couple of different options both had researched and considered as regards life outside SHIELD/Hydra. There seemed to be only one they wanted to pursue.

A few months later they packed a modest pickup with a few things from the house in Maryland they had been using and took a leisurely journey with frequent stops and regular swapping of driver duty to allow for finger-depleted hands and nerveless fingers. They took a final stop half an hour into the State of Montana, watched the sun set and caught a falling star before they set off again. Driving into the night and a bright, secluded future.

Four months later…

Brock was looking out of the window, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, when Jack woke up. Jack was still sleeping a lot, taking regular pain medication, they both were, and there was always enough oxycodone in this little house to stock a pharmacy. A small worry sometimes tugged at Jack’s mind that Brock’s dependence was more psychological than his own now and he intended to address that. He had time now that he had this new lease of life to do so. He didn't consider it arrogant to think part of Brock’s pill-popping had been to numb the pain of losing Jack as much as the pain of his injuries and with Jack alive that was something he didn’t need. Jack wanted Brock to join him now as he awoke and saw Brock standing in the window, wearing that towel. He spoke softly, “Hey, what are you looking at?”

“Stars…” said Brock. He seemed to actually enjoy the clear night sky views, free from city street lighting.

“Come here, I've got something to show you,” said Jack. He pushed back the covers.

Brock turned around with a small smile and walked slowly over to Jack’s bedside. “To show me?”

Jack grinned. “To show you, something I've got for you,” he propped himself up on one elbow and looked up at Brock, his real eye twinkling with mischief.

“Yeah?” asked Brock, still smiling. “Is it your dick?”

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head in a show of mock good natured exasperation at this bluntness. Then he reached out and tucked three fingers from his right hand under the top of Brock’s wrapped towel.

“Course it is,” said Jack. He tugged the towel firmly enough that Brock shifted slightly more towards him, still smiling down at him. “So… how about yours? You gonna show me?”

Brock shrugged. Jack yanked the towel away and slid his right hand around to grasp Brock’s asscheek - there were still enough fingers there for there to be a reasonable amount of groping involved in this action - and yanked him forward enough for Brock to have to adjust his stance again. At that he leaned down and flopped on the bed, half across Jack.

Jack sat up, grasping at Brock’s waist to manoeuvre him. “What the fuck are you doing? My dick’s that way,” Jack informed him.

“I know that, asshole,” Brock was rising on his elbows and knees.

“No, dick. That way. Get down there and get sucking!” Jack slapped Brock’s ass as he turned.

“Fucker…” muttered Brock.

“After,” said Jack.

It hadn't been like that at first, they had had to work to regain that easy intimacy they had shared before the failure of Project Insight.

Jack and Brock had kept busy after Jack was fit enough to travel, coming here to a cabin Brock had bought with money he had been saving, largely earned from side jobs, for years. It was in the same region as a cabin they had vacationed in a couple of years ago and being here had sentimental value for them. It was also secluded, they had fake names and IDs and they hoped they would remain secluded.

Jack had always been happy in his own company - Brock was the one person he had found he needed and benefited from being around and that had always been a source of surprise to him. Brock used to be in one way more outgoing and socially ‘normal’ and certainly preferred urban entertainments and facilities. It was a slight surprise to Jack that Brock had taken so well to living here these past couple of months.

But perhaps he had changed, getting Jack back had made him grateful for having what he really wanted and needed and he was more withdrawn. It was sad to see how the once cocky little bastard Jack had fallen in love with had changed. He took it upon himself to go out for groceries and supplies, the first couple of weeks. He said Jack should rest and he should take care of him. He was fully in the head-space of being carer to his precious Jackie, the mutilated lump he had rescued and now fussed over shamelessly. Brock had always shown these flashes of gentleness, tenderness, even early on, whenever Jack was compromised by injuries and pain medication. He was being like that all the time now.

But Jack noticed after the second trip to the nearest small town that Brock was shaky and anxious after venturing out among total strangers in an everyday setting, He was not Crossbones, covered in armor and he was not among rag tags of Hydra cell members who generally had treated him with some respect as a survivor in the time before he came for Jack.

He was going out among ordinary people and browsing stores, being served, being stared at as a hideously disfigured freak, he clearly felt. Jack decided to accompany him from the third time, subtly suggesting it as being good for his own recovery to get out and do things.

Jack had always cared for Brock in many ways, been his rock, and taken the pressure of leadership off his CO in their private lives. He resumed being the best moral support Brock could have in this regard. Brock needed looking after too, emotionally. He was still suffering from the blow loosing Jack had dealt him, and he was badly affected by the physical damage he had suffered himself.

Brock still worked hard, worked out, Jack watched him doing martial arts workouts and strength training in the yard. He got frustrated with himself and pushed himself too hard sometimes. He had lost some agility as well as having nerve damage in his hands - but he was rebuilding muscle that he had lost in months of hospital treatment and doing very well. His Crossbones suit compensated for the loss of some of his physical advantages as well as being armor and an intimidation factor.

Personally Jack hoped Brock would never need to use that thing again.

The thing that really got to Brock was the change in his own physical appearance. Jack himself had a glass eye, a serious limp and was missing several fingers, most of them from his dominant hand. Jack felt his injuries had not altered his looks in the way Brock’s had - as long as Brock still found him attractive at all he couldn't care less what anyone else thought. But Brock was hurt by his own appearance, so Jack often ran his hands through Brock’s hair (Jack was thankful Brock still had his hair, admittedly, he had always loved it ) and kissed the spot around his left ear where it no longer grew at all. Kissed the melted left ear for good measure.

He wanted to take Brock to Helena sometime, stay there a few days and give him the chance to go to metropolitan bars, go clubbing. Brock was not ready, it seemed. Jack would work on it, it was what Brock deserved and what he should have the chance to enjoy again.

Brock however… the vain little fucker. With good reason, he was a beautiful man before and Jack still thought him beautiful. He had his features, his wonderful bone structure, cheekbones... He was just covered in the typically messy scarring of burns, patchy, mottled. He felt disfigured. He needed constant reassurance from Jack on that score. It was a good thing that Jack’s patience with Brock had gone up another level since their reunion, that Jack took the time to empathize with someone who was a lot more wrapped up in their own good looks than Jack had ever been.

But why wouldn’t Jack be patient? He was grateful to be alive and grateful to be with Brock - grateful to Brock for saving him like a knight in Crossbones armor. The same was true of Brock, he was grateful to have Jack back and it was extraordinary how empathetic such a normally self-centred man had been about Jack’s own injuries.

Brock often made it plain he still thought Jack gorgeous, pointedly remarking about how good Jack looked today, in this shirt, in those pants, with his hair a little longer. There was a lot of Brock touching at otherwise casual moments, hand sliding around Jack’s waist, leaning on him, holding or kissing finger-depleted hands. Brock also painstakingly coached Jack to use guns the best he could, favoring the right hand, he was a good physical trainer generally and it still touched Jack that Brock seemed to think there was no reason Jack couldn't do anything well. So much faith because he genuinely admired Jack.

They were always good together and now they were the reason neither was a complete PTSD’d mess. They had renovated the cabin they bought, installed decent power and plumbing. Jack knew Brock liked a shower and Jack liked the freshly showered and preened Brock; he didn’t stay clean long though. There was an antique bath tub big enough for both of them. Jack's metal plated leg and foot ached and he had long had a tendency to back problems, he liked to soak - and for Brock to join him.

Looking at Brock standing in the window, wearing only that towel, Jack wanted Brock to join him right now. Jack’s leg ached slightly, but it always did, just a little. He had taken his pills before he went to sleep and he was naturally awake now and seeing Brock there made him feel turned on.

Back when Jack was first up and about but still in a lot of pain, he had found one night when Brock was curled up next to him that he wanted to get intimate again more than anything. It astonished him how that had not been a feature, since Brock came for him, even though it was not surprising.

But he had a problem. Waking up with Brock near him like this would always have made him hard, especially as Brock had been clingy and affectionate when they went to sleep and was now sleeping with one arm over Jack’s chest and one thigh hitched up over Jack’s hips. For the first time Jack realized his body was trying to respond to the arousal and his brain was acknowledging it, but… there was a tightness, like his dick was trying to spring to life for Brock’s proximity, but he was not getting hard.

He had read up on all long term effects of his injuries, he was thorough like that, but it had not really sunk in, the thing he now remembered reading about urethral trauma and the effects of scar tissue pressing on penile nerve structures and causing erectile dysfunction. Perhaps it was his mind processing his overall condition and not focussing on sex as a priority right then. It was a priority right now.

Jack had reached down with his more finger-populated hand and groped around under Brock’s thigh, experimentally squeezing and tugging at his own dick. To Jack's surprise it felt good. He had been, admittedly, a little squeamish about his dick and the blood spotting and had only just stopped worrying about whether he was pissing raspberry juice.  
But it was nice, the first little spikes of noticeable physical pleasure he had experienced for a long time. Pleasure that wasn't more precisely the relief when pain medications kicked in or the similarly therapeutic effects of Brock gently massaging his various painful places. His dick sparked halfheartedly, but nothing much happened.

Jack had sighed and given up, turning his hand to what seemed the more easily rewarding occupation of rubbing small circles on Brock’s lower back and making him sigh contentedly in his sleep. Jack had stayed awake for a while, staring at the ceiling and swallowing periodically. Those annoying hot tears leaked out of his eyes - he still had tear duct structures in his empty eye socket - every now and then.

Later that day, Brock had joined him on their sofa while Jack practiced with a games controller, playing dreamily like he always had, not letting it get to him that he was struggling to get out of the level he was on in a game he had played and finished a million times before. There were always five little bastards coming out from behind that building and he just couldn't get them quickly enough before he lost too much health and…

Brock looked relaxed and seemed content to spend some quiet time after lunch with Jack playing his game. He sometimes used to get so bored and fidgety and pissy when Jack did things like this. Now, Brock produced a paperback copy of ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ from under a cushion and prepared to read it. It was amazing how much and what he was prepared to read these days; months in hospital himself followed by these months taking care of Jack had made him appreciate reading. It was also amazing how beautiful he looked in sweatpants and one of Jack’s shirts, barefoot and his hair slightly softer, with less gel than he used to use and Jack felt that useless tingling tightness that would lead to nothing.

He put the controller down and interrupted Brock before he had a chance to really get into the book.

“Brock… can I ask you something?”

The book was immediately put down on the couch arm and Brock was looking at him attentively. “...?”

“You say you have some nerve damage, because of those burns…?” Jack shifted slightly to face Brock. “Is your… does your dick work? - I mean can you get it up okay?” Jack spat it out.

Brock blinked and answered. “Yeah…” he looked at Jack curiously.

Jack nodded. “Good. So you’re, okay with that, so you’re, you’re jerking off?”

Brock nodded once and looked at his hands, clasped between his thighs. He looked slightly diffident, like he knew this might be awkward potentially.

Jack tilted his head. “You know...thing is, I’m having a few problems -”

“Can’t get it up at the moment,” mumbled Brock. “Thought you might be, I read something about that.”

“You didn't say anything,”

“Least of your problems, when I read about it,”

“But it is a problem.”

“...not for me. And it’ll probably get better when you heal up more,”

Jack leaned towards Brock more. “It’s a problem for me,” he was close enough for Brock to feel his breath on his cheek. “The problem is I want to fuck you into the floor, right now,” he whispered right into Brock’s ear.

Brock made a small sound in the back of his throat. Jack’s hand slid into Brock crotch gently. “I can’t do that right now,” But he wanted to get Brock nicely turned on.

“Don’t do this, Jackie, it’s okay,” sighed Brock.

“It ain't okay at all.”

“Do you want me to try and suck you off”? offered Brock. “If you’d said something before, I would have -”

“Want to see you enjoy yourself,” said Jack. He sat back and tapped his leg. “Get your pants off and get up on me. Rub yourself off on me - No, I’ll jerk you off,”

Brock looked at him uncertainly.

“What’s wrong? You said you could get it up.” Jack tapped his lap more insistently. “Up!”

Brock reacted to the bossy attitude by sliding down in the sofa and wriggling out of his sweatpants, climbing up and sitting bare-assed astride Jack’s hips. He started to jerk off a couple of times, to warm up, but Jack slapped his hand away with a hand that was chiefly palm.

“I’ll do that, I said.” he insisted and grasped Brock’s dick in the hand more blessed with fingers.

”I want to do something nice to you,” he added, more gently. Brock’s arms stretched out either side of Jack’s head and over the back of the sofa. He started to generally arch and stretch like a contented cat as Jack picked up a rhythm. His face was in front and slightly to the side of Jack’s and Jack turned his head to watch Brock’s facial expressions, nuzzling his cheek and listening to the soft moans and gasps of pleasure. If this didn’t kick start his fucking dick into doing its job nothing would, because this was hot. Or at least it would in time and Jack decided they should try all kinds of things like this until it did. Having Brock come messily and be squirming on him with his face in Jack’s neck was the most pleasant thing Jack had experienced in months on several levels.

Brock insisted on trying to suck Jack off, lying with his head in Jack’s lap, afterwards. Jack did not get a full erection, but it was cute and still kind of hot, Brock patiently playing with him like that. Jack considered resuming his game, but thought that might be kind of taking liberties and persuaded Brock to give up and get them some snacks instead. There was all the time in the world and if the worst came to the worst Jack felt as long as he could give Brock pleasure it was pretty good going, considering they both ought to be dead.

It did get better, and in the meantime Jack was pretty pleased to note he could still finger Brock to orgasm with his right hand. Jack’s first successful, sustained hard on was celebrated in the kitchen, with Brock bent over the table, grasping the far edge of it for dear life - and it still moved a couple of inches when Jack reached his first climax since the Triskelion fell.

“Fuck me,” muttered Brock, when Jack had collapsed half over him with his head and shoulders slightly to his side.

“I just did,” responded Jack, automatically, then realized the significance of that. “I actually did - fuck me, I just fucked you,”

“Yes. Yes you did,” said Brock, putting an arm up and over Jack’s shoulders and kissing him on the cheek.

Jack paid a price for that later with aches and pains but it was worth it. He soaked in a bath with Brock and went to bed with Brock nestled up against him and looked at the stars through the window with the hope of morning wood when he awoke, it was almost like a wish upon a star, and it came true... .


End file.
